The bell rang.
Not the academy bell that marked the hour or the class changes. Not the grand silver bell on the upper tower that only rang for ceremonies.
This one was different.
This was the Crimson Bell.
It hadn't rung in over five hundred years. The last time it had, three professors resigned, two students died from mana backlash, and a world-renowned Highlord mage went missing in the Void for seven years.
When it rang now, it wasn't heard in the ears. It was felt in the bones. In the soul.
Students froze midstep. Books dropped. Quills snapped. Some fell to their knees without understanding why.
And Lucien Vale…
He was smiling.
—
He stood at the highest balcony of Hollowspire's East Wing, the wind curling through his hair like a wild animal. His robe fluttered behind him, still stained with scorch marks and faint flickers of his earlier battle within the Living Tower. The flame crown wasn't visible—it was fused with his soul—but anyone who looked at him felt the heat.
The invisible heat of authority. Of someone becoming more than human.
Elira stormed up the spiral stairs behind him, her boots clapping against stone. When she burst out into the open air and saw him standing there, smiling at the horizon, she didn't know whether to yell or punch him.
"You rang the Crimson Bell? Are you insane?"
Lucien didn't turn.
"I had to."
"You don't ring that bell unless you're ready to challenge the Academy itself," she hissed. "Do you even know what that means?"
"Of course I do," he said, voice calm as still water. "It means I'm ready to declare a Duel of Flame."
Elira's eyes went wide.
"You're challenging a Head-Class instructor?"
"No," he said, finally turning toward her. His eyes glowed faintly orange now. "I'm challenging all of them."
—
The Duel of Flame was a sacred rite, buried in the deepest volumes of Hollowspire law. A loophole, really. A forgotten clause once used by warlords and lunatics. Anyone who managed to survive the Trials of the Breathing Tower could invoke it.
The duel wasn't about grades, politics, or noble titles.
It was about dominance.
The academy had to respond.
Within the hour, the Council of Flame convened in the obsidian-walled war room at the top of Hollowspire. A dozen mages stood in tense silence, some sitting, others pacing. Most of them were instructors, each wearing their formal robes, their emblems glittering on their chests.
At the head of the table sat Instructor Vaelin Duskmoor, Master of Flame Theory and former War Archmage of the Emberlands. His face was sharp, eyes darker than pitch. Scars lined his jaw.
"He can't be serious," said one professor. "Lucien Vale is a first-year student."
"He's more than that now," Vaelin replied, his voice low and cold. "He survived the Tower That Breathes. He's bound the Undying Flame. And now he dares to ring the Crimson Bell."
"What should we do?"
Vaelin's eyes narrowed.
"We answer."
—
The next morning, the central courtyard of Hollowspire Academy was transformed into a battlefield.
A circular arena made of obsidian and reinforced mana sigils shimmered in the early light. Students crowded every balcony, every tower ledge, every available inch of ground. Even some former graduates, now mercenaries and city-lords, had returned through the night, called by rumors of the Crimson Bell.
In the center stood Lucien, robes clean but simple. No crest. No armor. No allies.
Only fire in his eyes.
Across from him stood three instructors, each cloaked in shimmering heat. Firelords. Veteran battle mages who had crushed rebellions, tamed phoenixes, and fought dragons.
The crowd buzzed with disbelief. A student was going to duel three instructors?
And not just any instructors—flame specialists. Experts. Warcasters.
Elira watched from above, hands clenched so tight her knuckles were white.
"He's going to die."
Next to her, another student whispered, "He should have run. They'll erase him."
But then the match began.
—
Instructor Vaelin raised his hand. The ground split open, lava bubbling just beneath the arena surface. With a single gesture, he summoned a dragon-shaped flame golem that roared with molten fury.
To his left, Instructor Kaev summoned a meteor-sized fireball above her head, spinning it like a second sun.
And to the right, Instructor Oryn chanted an incantation that turned his entire body into living fire.
Lucien?
He didn't raise a hand.
He didn't chant.
He just exhaled.
The arena dimmed.
The sun itself seemed to step back.
And then—
A spark ignited on his fingertips.
Just a spark.
But it sang with power.
The fire crown awakened, lines of gold flame etching themselves along Lucien's arms, chest, and throat. His aura shifted. It wasn't mana anymore.
It was command.
He raised his hand.
The meteor above Kaev's head shattered like glass.
Oryn's fire form flickered—then vanished, as though snuffed out by something colder than death.
The golem Vaelin had summoned cracked and collapsed into dust.
Silence followed.
Then Lucien whispered the words no student had dared utter in centuries:
"I name myself Magus Sovereign."
Every head turned.
Vaelin's eyes narrowed. "Blasphemy."
Lucien stepped forward.
"Power does not wait for permission."
He lifted both hands.
And the flame obeyed.
It didn't explode outward like traditional spells. It didn't scream or roar. It simply appeared—a sea of golden fire that didn't burn the arena, didn't destroy the crowd. It moved with purpose. With intelligence.
It wrapped around the instructors like vines of light, holding them in place.
One by one, they fell to their knees—not from injury, but from pressure.
The pressure of standing before something they did not understand.
Something that should not exist.
The crowd gasped.
And then—cheered.
Lucien lowered his arms. The flame vanished.
He turned, cloak fluttering, and walked toward the exit without looking back.
He had won.
Not just the duel.
He had won fear.
He had won respect.
And he had earned something far more dangerous.
Attention.
—
In the dark halls beneath Hollowspire, where secrets whispered louder than screams, two cloaked figures watched the duel's crystal recording.
One was a woman with silver eyes, her hands glowing with frost.
The other wore a mask shaped like a serpent's tongue.
"Should we move now?" the masked one asked.
"No," the woman said. "Let him rise a little more. Then we crush him."
They faded into the darkness.
But Lucien?
He was just getting started.
—